


Seeing Things Through

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Gunplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Rape Role-play, Sexual Fantasy, Size Kink, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-22
Updated: 2011-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're the one that taught me not to be ashamed to reach out with both hands and take what I want from life."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeing Things Through

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [坦诚相见（原标题：Seeing Things Trough）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/328055) by [Miss_Octopus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Octopus/pseuds/Miss_Octopus)



A/N: This story is a [fill for a prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/7277.html?thread=36332141#t36332141) on the kinkmeme. Anon asked for Sherlock to have a rape fantasy that he wants John to fulfill.

 

This fic has been translated into Chinese: http://archiveofourown.org/works/328055

 

 

   
While they'd been here on the sofa, the sun had set; it would soon be dark in the sitting room. John could no longer see Sherlock's face clearly, silhouetted as he was by the remaining light coming in through the window. But he could feel Sherlock's hot breath on his face and neck, felt his erection each time his pelvis dipped. John's lips were dry from Sherlock's hungry kisses, and Sherlock's face was rubbed raw by John's stubble. Now they were using their hands, struggling with each others' buttons. John, flat on his back, had an easier time, as Sherlock needed one hand to prop himself up. He could have sat up, but that would have meant leaving the comfort of John's body heat.

“I was afraid you didn't feel the same way,” John said as his fingers worked. “Or, to be more accurate, I was afraid you didn't _feel_.”

“You have to show me what to do,” Sherlock said. “I don't know how to do...this.”

Upon hearing this breathless confession, John’s heart and his cock both fluttered, each for a different reason. Did Sherlock mean…? Well, that didn’t change the way John felt. He’d just have to be more careful, more thoughtful.

“We don't have to make it a big production,” he whispered. “Let's just have your prick out, hm? We'll have a little wank.”

Once John had Sherlock's shirt open, he reached lower, for the zip, and when he pulled it down, gravity did the rest of the work, revealing a lovely cock, long and elegant like its owner. He began to stroke it, slow and tight, but Sherlock seemed to have little patience for that; he wanted to see John's. He pulled at the button of John’s trousers until it came free, then worked the zip with one hand. John helped by lifting his arse to push his trousers and boxers over his hips. What popped up then made Sherlock's breath catch in his throat.

It wasn't _abnormally_ large, _comically_ large. But it was well above average; Sherlock could see that even in the dim light and with his dearth of experience. A cock like that would be intimidating to anyone who happened to gaze upon it, whether they intended to enjoy it, or compete with it. A smooth, moist head pushed its way out of a velvety-soft sheath. The heaviness of the thick shaft kept it from standing up, even when fully hard. It curved towards John's belly. And it _pulsed_ , twitching along with John's racing heartbeat. Sherlock watched it, hypnotized, for a long while.

John blushed. “I know, I know, it's...that is, I’ve been told that it’s…” He was too embarrassed to finish the sentence. He examined Sherlock's face, expecting to see one of the two expressions he invariably met with when someone saw for the first time what he was working with: utter delight or abject horror. But Sherlock showed neither. His eyes darted back and forth, like he was reading words off a page.

“I'm going to request that you to do something,” Sherlock said, still staring at it, “and when I do, don't be insulted: Could you please put that away.”

John froze, mortified.

“I have to ask you something important,” Sherlock continued, “and I don't want to be distracted. By it.”

“Fine, that's fine.” John put himself away, though he left the zip undone.

Sherlock sat up now, turning himself so he was seated properly on the sofa. John folded his legs to make room, then moved closer, until his knee nudged Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock looked at the floor. “I would do anything for you.”

There was a void now, between them. A very specifically-shaped void. John filled it by saying, “You already know that I would do anything for you as well.”

“Good. I'm happy to hear that.” Then, careful not to make eye contact, Sherlock leaned into John, bringing his mouth to John's ear. He whispered something he was too embarrassed to say aloud.

“Yes, I mean it,” John said in response. “Absolutely anything.”

Sherlock continued to murmur in John's ear, for several more minutes. As time ticked by, Sherlock clutched John tighter. This soft, secret conversation was punctuated by the occasional question or reassurance from John: “Who am I, then? Am I me, or am I a stranger?” “I understand. Well, I don't quite understand, but I want to make you happy.” “So what do I do after that?” “Are you absolutely sure this is how you want our first time to be?” “Yes, I can do it, it's not a problem, so long as that's really what you want.”

When Sherlock finally released him, John straightened his clothes, stood, and cleared his throat. “I'll have to go down to the shop and get something. Why don't you...do whatever you need to do to get ready, and wait for me.” He grabbed his coat and raced down the stairs. Sherlock went back to staring at the floor; it took him a minute or two more to get himself up off the sofa. 

*****

 When John returned, the sitting room was completely dark, and empty. The rustle of the shopping bag seemed unreasonably loud.

Between the things that had taken place on the sofa, John's response to what Sherlock had whispered to him, and the dash to the shop, John was a sweaty mess. It would be rude to present himself in this state. He jumped in the shower, finding it still warm and foggy from Sherlock's recent visit. While he gave himself a quick scrub, he went over in his head all that Sherlock had confided to him, about why this was necessary. It was more than a little confusing, but John was glad Sherlock had chosen him. Just the idea of anyone else doing to Sherlock what he was about to do infuriated him.

After towelling off, he got back into his clothes and jacket, picked up what he’d bought from the shop, grabbed one other important item, and made his way upstairs. He found Sherlock in his own room, naked but under the covers, apparently absorbed in an anatomy text.

“Oh, hello, John,” he said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” John said. He almost took a tentative step, but stopped himself, as he had not been asked to be tentative. He tried again, this time striding confidently, approaching the bed on the right. He put his left knee on the mattress, and leaned slightly, so his groin was eye level with Sherlock. 

He said, “I've decided it's time for us to take our relationship to the next level.”

“Whatever do you mean, John.” Sherlock went back to the book, as though the conversation did not interest him.

“I mean,” John said, grabbing the textbook out of Sherlock's lap and flinging it aside, “I want more from you. Much more.”

John had his attention, now. Sherlock's breaths were coming a little shorter, and he looked up at John with sad, rueful eyes. “I wish I could give you what you want, John, I really do. But...I just don't think I’m able.”

“What's the matter?” John took Sherlock's chin in hand, stroking it and down his neck. “I know you want me. I've seen the way you look at me. I know you think about me.”

“It's true. But that's the problem. I have looked at you. I know that you're spectacularly endowed. And I can't imagine that I'd ever be able to accommodate you. I just don't think it was meant to be.”

“I had a feeling you'd say that,” John said. “But the thing is, I disagree with you. I mean, I agree, yes, my cock _is_ enormous. But I'm afraid I must insist...” He reached into his jacket and pulled out his Browning revolver, pointed it right between Sherlock's eyes. “You _are_ going to take it.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Oh God, John, please don't hurt me.”

“I'm not here to hurt you. I want you to enjoy yourself, I really do. I just think you need a little convincing.”

Sherlock stared down the barrel of the gun, and John became a blur behind it. The gun was in his right hand, technically his weak hand, but Sherlock knew he could shoot ambidextrously. When it came to weapons, John had no “weak” hand. 

John leaned back, stretched his gun-arm out and cradled the underside of the grip with his other hand. Briefly, he thought of the first time he'd fired a Browning, many years ago, and how it had bitten the web between his thumb and forefinger, before he'd learned to adjust his grip to prevent this. 

He said, “You're going to do exactly as I tell you, and we won't have any problems. Understood?”

John lifted the muzzle from in front of Sherlock's eyes, then swooped back down with it and laid the cold metal of the slide against his carotid artery. This way, he could bring himself closer to Sherlock's face, loom over him, as he commanded, “Now, reach out with those long, elegant fingers, my love, and take out my cock.”

Sherlock took the two fastened corners of denim in each trembling hand and popped the top button free. Earlier, when he'd dressed after his shower, John had not bothered to put his boxers back on, so as Sherlock slowly lowered the zip, John's cock sprang free quite suddenly, flushed and rock-hard, giving Sherlock a genuine shock. 

John smiled proudly, pretending to ignore Sherlock's surprise. “You're absolutely right, it is big. Really big. But with nice long fingers like you've got, I'm sure you could just about get your hand around it. Go on.”

The solid shaft did have some yield to it. Sherlock wrapped his hand around the base of it, and by squeezing, he got the tips of his thumb and middle finger to touch.

“See?” John said. “It's not so bad. Now, why don’t you give it a little kiss hello.”

Sherlock slowly, shakily leaned forward, until he was able to barely touch the side of John's shaft with his lips.

John tapped the slide of the Browning against Sherlock’s neck, to remind him of its presence. “I think you can be friendlier than that. Come on, right there at the tip, where it's wet.”

Instead, Sherlock looked up with the biggest, widest eyes John had ever seen on him. “John, please don't make me do this.” 

And then...oh God, the fucking crocodile tears. John had thought he was prepared to play this game; it had even started to feel intimate and sweet, in the twisted sort of way that befitted their relationship. But this was hard for even John to take, as he was not in the habit of forcing himself on someone who was crying. 

Sherlock had promised him that if either one of them truly was not having a good time, they could say a particular word, and put an end to it. Since that had not occurred, John had to believe that Sherlock was enjoying this, somehow, and so he must carry on.

John hastily wiped the tears from Sherlock’s cheeks with his free hand. “Don't cry,” he said coldly. “You're only making it worse for yourself.” Sherlock seemed to sense what had just happened, and left off the waterworks from then on.

All along, John could see that under the blanket, Sherlock’s cock was just as stiff and straining as his own. But neither of them mentioned that.

“Now.” John took a breath and tried to return to the game, punctuating his words with a dig of the Browning's muzzle under Sherlock's chin. “I’m only asking one more time. Put those nice, soft lips on my big, hard cock.”

John felt ridiculous, talking that way. He really didn't feel sufficiently endowed to justify that sort of bragging. But the more he bragged, the more Sherlock looked like he might pass out from arousal, so he dug deep and kept on.

Sherlock dropped his jaw and parted his lips, allowing John to push the head of his cock inside. He briefly slid the muzzle of the Browning up alongside Sherlock's temple. “If I feel teeth,” he growled, “it's all over.”

Sherlock nodded and pressed his lips over his teeth. Now John could use that mouth properly, holding the back of Sherlock's skull and forcing it deep, until Sherlock gagged.

“Try harder than that,” John scolded. “Make it good for me.” He leaned back, so he could watch and see how much of his cock Sherlock could fit in his mouth. Whatever he couldn't, John ordered him to hold in his hands. Sherlock allowed John to continue to thrust, opening his mouth wide and sitting passive and still.

John grunted, “I'm not doing all the work. Suck me properly.”

He held still and watched Sherlock's cheeks hollow. Then, for the first time, it started to feel like a proper blow job, with Sherlock's lips sliding up and down the shaft and his tongue circling round the head. There was little technique, but then, if there’d been too much technique, it would have been fairly out of character.

“Good,” John grunted, then chided Sherlock, “Don't swallow your spit. Let it get sloppy.” After a few minutes, it felt much wetter, very nice, and Sherlock was drooling around the thick shaft. By now, Sherlock had a handle on how much of John he could get in his mouth, and how much he had to hold. But when John sensed that he was getting too comfortable, he held Sherlock's head and pushed slowly, forcing more of his shaft through Sherlock's fist and between his lips.

“That too much for you?” John said, rubbing his cock against Sherlock's soft palate. “When I come, it goes down your throat, all of it, you hear me?”

Sherlock made an ambiguous noise in his throat.

“Here it comes,” John said, and fucked Sherlock's mouth mindlessly for ten long seconds. When he jerked with a particularly powerful aftershock, the Browning knocked against the headboard, and the noise brought him back to Earth. 

As John slid his softening cock out, a rivulet of come escaped over Sherlock's bottom lip and trickled down his chin.

“I said _all of it_.” John caught the dribble with the muzzle of the Browning and slid it back up, pushing the barrel against the corner of Sherlock's lips and into his mouth. Sherlock obediently sucked it clean, tasting bitter salt, metal and oil. As John slowly pulled the muzzle back out, the sharp corner of the sight scraped the inside of Sherlock's upper lip.

John put his cock away, for now, and sat back on his heels, resting the gun on his thigh. His stance made it clear, however, that he was not letting down his guard. “See?” John said. “That wasn't so bad.” 

Sherlock slumped against the headboard, heaving a huge sigh.

“Oh, do you think we're done? Not even close. I'll need some time to recover, but that’s fine because we'll need time to get you prepared to take my big, thick cock again. This time, I'll want your arse.”

“John, I can't.” Sherlock's gaze was fixed on John's groin, eyeing it like one would a slumbering beast. “You'll hurt me. There’s no way you wouldn’t, with an enormous prick like that. Please, you’re my friend, don’t make me. There must be something else I can do for you.”

“You're the one that taught me not to be ashamed to reach out with both hands and take what I want from life. I wanted excitement and danger, and you handed it to me. Now all I want is your willing body, and you're denying me? How do you think that makes me feel?” John gestured with the Browning's muzzle, making a circle to indicate that Sherlock should turn over. “Enough talk now. Hands and knees.”

Sherlock swallowed hard and made half a move to comply.

John narrowed his eyes. “When you've got a gun pointed at you is not the time to drag your heels.”

“John,” Sherlock pleaded once more, but did as he was told.

John held the gun steady as Sherlock rolled over. But the moment Sherlock’s eyes left him, he flicked the safety back on, and let out a breath that he felt he'd been holding for hours.

In position now, Sherlock reluctantly presented his arse. John reached out to feel the smooth curve of one cheek. With the heavy steel of the Browning always in his right hand, everything his left hand touched felt softer, lighter. “You could have just said yes, and we wouldn't have had to do it this way,” he said, as he reverently touched Sherlock's virgin arsehole with his fingertips. It was so tight and pink, and quivered at his touch. This was going to be incredible. Already his cock was trying to stand up again. 

“All I want is to pleasure this arse,” he said, lovingly caressing Sherlock's most private, vulnerable area. “And if you would just stop being so stubborn and difficult, nothing would stand in my way.” 

In his inside jacket pocket, the lubricant had been stashed away, conveniently warmed now by his body heat. He pulled it out and leaned over Sherlock's trembling form to hand it to him. “Here, take this. You'll be in charge of it, since I've only got one hand free. Now squeeze some onto my fingers.”

Sherlock uncapped the tube and squeezed out a dollop onto the pads of John's first two fingers.

“Oh, you're going to want more than that, my love. Give me some more.”

When he felt he had enough, John leaned back and went to work, massaging Sherlock’s perineum, circling and slicking that tempting little pucker. “Don’t fight it,” he said, and pressed in with one finger, coming back to gather and push more lube inside the instant he felt friction. He worked the finger straight in and out, over and over, not worrying about Sherlock’s prostate yet, just trying to loosen the muscle. 

Sherlock groaned, feeling hot and woozy and violated. “John, I'm begging you, please stop.” But even as he said this, he spread his knees and tilted his hips almost imperceptibly. 

“I want you to enjoy yourself,” John said, “I really, really do... but if you don't, it's happening all the same. Now here comes the second finger.”

“No, John, take it out, I can't--”

John pressed the length of the Browning against Sherlock's flank. “Are you telling me what to do?”

Sherlock relented, his shoulderblades pushed up but his head hanging down.

Before delivering the promised second finger, John reached under to lift and fondle Sherlock's balls, which arousal had made high and tight and round. He started to get hard again as it became apparent how responsive Sherlock was. No matter how much Sherlock protested with his mouth, around his perineum and rim and deep inside his body he was squeezing and fluttering rhythmically. John was opening him with three fingers now, using slow, smooth, patient caresses to give his prostate the absolute maximum pleasure.

All the while, Sherlock had never lost his erection. _God, it must be aching_ , John thought. He leaned to one side to view it; a long, viscous strand of pre-come dangled from the tip, swinging as Sherlock’s body swayed with each thrust of John’s fingers.

“Are you ready? Do you want my big, stiff cock now?”

“No…”

“Yes, you do.”

John unzipped again, held out his hand for more lube, and primed his cock with a few slow strokes as he brought it to Sherlock’s slick, ready hole. When Sherlock felt the heavy, hot tip of it attempting to breach him, he feigned panic and tried to scramble up the headboard. He was too tall and too far away for John to get an arm around him, but he reached out and caught Sherlock by the throat with his left hand, digging his fingers into Sherlock's windpipe. The head of his cock was still inside Sherlock, and now they were in a precarious position. In order to relieve the pressure on his windpipe without taking any more of John’s cock, Sherlock had to arch his back and bend backwards. This allowed John to lean in close. He brought his mouth to Sherlock's ear and pressed the gun to Sherlock's temple. For the first time that evening, Sherlock heard the click of the hammer being thumbed back.

John whispered, “Ah ah ah. Where do you think you're going?”

Sherlock made a gurgling noise.

“You're being very naughty. Now hold still. It's going in you now.”

John pressed his hips forward by increments, sinking into Sherlock. Without his hand to aim it, he feared the angle would be less than ideal, making the penetration more painful than necessary. He went slow, slow enough for Sherlock to adjust minutely.

But no matter how much Sherlock might have been allowed to move, there was no escape from the slow, bittersweet stretch as John's cock made its relentless way inside. It was blunt and slippery and it _just kept coming_. Sherlock tried and failed to suppress a whinge. All the while, John continued to whisper sweetly to him. “I know, Sherlock, I know. It's so big, isn't it.”

“You're going to split me open,” Sherlock whimpered.

“Don't be ridiculous. You'll feel it tomorrow, there's no doubt about that, but I'll handle you properly. There. That's it, I'm all in now.”

Sherlock barely got his groan of relief out when John said, “Only joking. It's about half-way. But you're doing a very good job.”

He released Sherlock then, leaned back so that he could watch the rest of his prick going in. He grabbed Sherlock's left buttock, spreading it, massaging the hard gluteal muscle.

“It will go in easier if you touch yourself.”

“I don't want to.”

“Have it your own way,” John sighed.

Having held the gun for a good half-hour, John’s arm was getting fatigued. He rested it on Sherlock's back just to get some relief, but as soon as Sherlock felt the cold metal on his spine he gasped and squirmed. Then, he began to tug on his cock, and gave little groans as he realized John was right, it did make it easier.

“There you are. Just enjoy it.”

Finally, John bottomed out, his pubic hair tickling Sherlock's skin, his balls tapping against Sherlock's. He ground into Sherlock just a bit more, for good measure, then pulled out halfway before burying himself again, much quicker this time, with a little snap to his hips. Then he pulled out almost all the way, and played there for a while, rubbing the thick ridge of his cock against Sherlock's smooth, stretched rim.

Sherlock was trying to muffle his cries, first with the pillow, then with his hand. John would have none of this. “Go on, let it out,” he ordered, digging the gun into the muscle behind Sherlock's shoulderblade. “Don't think you'll be hiding anything from me.”

Having gotten his permission, Sherlock began to moan hard and loud. He would shriek if John gave him a particularly forceful few inches of cock, but even when he wasn't being pounded he was crying out, possibly for more, possibly for mercy.

This only encouraged John, who closed his eyes and let loose on Sherlock. “Oh I love it, you're a screamer. Fuck, I'd scream too, if my arse was getting ploughed like yours is right now.” 

John dragged the muzzle of the Browning down Sherlock’s spine, then back up, pushing it until it caught on Sherlock’s occipital bone. He was tingling from the base of his spine to his balls, now. He wasn't going to have to chase this orgasm; it was barreling down on him, and from now on he'd have to make a conscious effort to delay it. He had tried to be patient, but now he snapped at Sherlock, “I won't finish until you do, so you better decide what you're doing.”

“I can't, John, I really can't, I don't know, but-- I can't.”

John could feel the tension in Sherlock's muscles, how hard he was trying not to admit that he liked it, resisting the urge to push back and take it. There was no way Sherlock was giving in. John would have to force it.

“I know what the problem is,” he said slyly. “I had it all wrong. It's not too much for you at all. My cock isn't _enough_. You want a little more.”

He slid his free hand from Sherlock’s back down to his arse, then ran one finger through the froth of lube between his cock and Sherlock's already impossibly stretched hole. After a few exploratory pushes, he managed to get the tip of the finger in between. He added a little more as he slid it, with some effort, around the rim. 

That was all Sherlock needed; he went off like fireworks, finally pushing back, owning up to his pleasure. He was screaming himself hoarse but paralyzed by his orgasm, able to move only his fist, milking himself onto the sheets.

John waited for the ebb; he didn't want to go until Sherlock had calmed down. He had another little dirty speech prepared, once Sherlock quieted down, about the big load he was going to put in him. But Sherlock just kept coming and coming, wracked by endless hot tremors, so John gave up and went, his cock and Sherlock's arsehole pulsing together. 

Coming back to his senses, John waited for the shivers in him to subside, but they didn't, and his thighs ached, so he pulled out and half-crouched, half-fell backwards, until he was sat on his heels again, bracing himself with one hand behind him. He didn't think of moving. He could do nothing but stare slack-jawed at Sherlock's slick, used hole as it spasmed, working itself closed, squeezing out lube and John's come.

He had a brief moment of panic: _Oh God, where's the gun, what happened to the gun_. But it was still right there in his hand.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock remained on his hands and knees, and anything over which he still had voluntary muscle control remained perfectly still.

“Talk to me.”

“...John.” It was a vocalization so feeble, so pathetic, John was overcome with anxiety. He didn’t know what happened next, and if Sherlock couldn't communicate, he'd have to figure it out himself. What did Sherlock need right now? A glass of water? A pillow? A kiss? To be left alone? To be held?

“John, just....can you move me? Can you lay me down?”

“Of course, anything,” John blurted. He set the Browning on the floor and slightly under the bed, to be put away properly later, then hurried to press himself to Sherlock and put both arms around him. He didn't have much leverage, but he managed to gently tip the two of them over, and he spooned Sherlock in a dry spot on the sheets.

Sherlock heaved a great sigh, and within moments seemed calm and lucid again. “I want you to know,” he said softly, “I appreciate that you didn’t ask a lot of questions or give me grief about wanting to do that the way we did.”

“Your explanation was sufficient,” John said. “You knew what you wanted was not normal, so when you asked for it anyway, I thought that was very brave and I respected your candor.” He shifted and held Sherlock tighter. “I have this theory about you. You pretend like you don’t understand how ordinary people think and feel, or how social interaction is supposed to work, but I think you know perfectly well. You just don’t _care_.”

“And you don’t care that I don’t care,” Sherlock said. “That’s what I like about you.”

Suddenly, Sherlock struggled out of John’s grip and reached for the notepad and biro on the bedside table. Half to himself, he said, “I hope I’m doing this correctly.” He began to scribble on the pad. “I once asked a client how his wife demonstrated affection -- strictly for data purposes, of course -- and he explained this to me. I hope this will be a sufficient expression of my appreciation for your respect and willingness to see things through. Also, it will serve as a reassurance that I wish to continue…seeing things through…with you…” He tore the paper hastily from the pad and held it out for John to take.

When John saw what Sherlock had written, he wanted to laugh, but restrained himself. Sherlock was taking this quite seriously; it had obviously flustered him just to write the words. This was no time for even a good-natured laugh.

Around the edge of the note was a continuous dotted line, and inside it, these words:

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
THIS COUPON MAY BE REDEEMED  
FOR ONE SEXUAL ENCOUNTER  
WITH  
SHERLOCK HOLMES  
OF ANY NATURE, NO QUESTIONS ASKED.  
ENCOUNTER MAY BE OF ANY LENGTH,  
IN ANY LOCATION,  
BUT MUST NOT INTERFERE WITH THE WORK.  
DOES NOT EXPIRE.  
\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

What will happen next? Will John redeem his coupon?

SPOILER ALERT: He will. Stay tuned.


End file.
